


hunger

by artificialmeggie (ohmymeggs), formercongressman



Series: Behind Closed Doors [1]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Avengers Anthology, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 09:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19742998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmymeggs/pseuds/artificialmeggie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/formercongressman/pseuds/formercongressman
Summary: The first time, when it really starts, that’s in that little room in the hotel with the vending machines. (in which Evan tries to write from Vanessa's perspective for once.)





	hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Tried to make a vending machine transaction a lil sexy, hope you like it.

The first time isn’t in the van. It’s not on a smoke break, either. It isn’t at breakfast, it isn’t backstage, and it isn’t stolen in the hotel hallway. It’s definitely not in the Werk Room, not the one they show on TV. 

Nope. The first time, when it  _ really _ starts, that’s in that little room in the hotel with the vending machines.

Vanessa, predictably, hates being cooped up in his hotel room. He’s got the windows open to hear the traffic outside, the TV always running so it feels like there’s someone to talk to, the curtains drawn so he can see buildings and lights and people even though they’re too far away and the Wendy’s sign across the street seems to be taunting him. It’s not enough. He’s considered taking up smoking just to be able to get some fresh air (ironic, yes) but he ultimately decides against it.

He’s gotta do something, though, can’t just keep sitting here and watching the damn news. It’s late and he’s hungry, so he gently cracks the hotel room door and peeks outside his room. 

“Miss Trisha!” he whispers into the hallway. The tiny PA tasked with keeping an eye on them for the evening comes scurrying around the corner.

“Hey! You know you can just call me Tri-”

“Can I get one of those room service menus? The ones you gave us for dinner yesterday?”

Trisha checks the clock on her phone. “They closed the kitchen at 11, I think. But there are some vending machines on the next floor down.”

Vanessa purses his lips. “Can I…”

“Yeah, sure, just come right back.” Trisha, an actual angel, gives him a small smile. 

Now. Vanessa knows not to take too much freedom for granted. He’s not coming anywhere close to fucking up a second chance. So instead of walking down every hall and stairwell, or running across the street to that Wendy’s to get some fries, he grabs a handful of quarters and heads directly down the stairs.

He searches for the vending machines and thinks about how jealous Silky is gonna be tomorrow, knowing all the fruit cups she started hoarding in her room. Vanessa can’t keep a secret to save his life, so he doesn’t consider that. But maybe he and Silk could buy out all the snacks and use them for trades or some shit.

And so he’s thinking about that and distracted by a sign with directions on the wall when he rounds the corner and almost walks directly into Brooke Lynn. 

He’s dressed from head to toe in grey sweats, and yet he still manages to look-- well. Hot. Dangerously hot, distractingly hot, the kind of hot that pulled Vanessa’s attention away from his sewing in the first challenge and he later struggled to rip out the fucked up stitches by hand. Brooke’s eyes flash down a little, so fast Vanessa almost misses it. And he knows that look,  _ fuck _ , it’s the kind of look he’d give Brooke if he saw him in a club out of drag. He tries to ignore whatever clicks in his chest. But he’s not very good at that. 

“Oh. Hey.” That’s how Vanessa chooses to condense those thoughts.

“Hey.” Maybe Brooke rolls his lower lip between his teeth, narrows his eyes, just for a second. Maybe Vanessa is seeing things.

“They just letting you wander the halls up here?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke rattles the pack of cigarettes in his hand as an answer. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“It’s snack time, bitch.” He smiles, cocky, and Brooke lifts his eyebrows. “You know where the vending machine’s at?”

“Yeah, around here, I think.” Brooke puts a hand on Vanessa’s shoulder and swivels him in the opposite direction. It’s a touch that lingers, and Vanessa notices. 

The vending machines are at the end of the other hallway, tucked in a small alcove. There’s no real door and a glaring fluorescent light. Vanessa knows he probably doesn’t look cute and he’s trying to look like he doesn’t care. Which must be working, because he can see in the reflection of the glass how Brooke props himself up against the back wall, watching him close. 

“You want something?” Vanessa slides quarters into the machine.

“Yeah, sure.” Brooke’s voice is careful, paced, intentional,  _ frustrating _ . “What are you getting?”

“Sour Patch Children,” Vanessa says confidently, punching the buttons. 

Brooke snorts, actually snorts. It’s ugly, and he brings a hand up to his face as he laughs, and oh  _ fuck _ he’s cute when he’s happy. “Isn’t it Sour Patch Kids?”

“Okay, kids, children, infants. I’m not a fucking candy scientist. You want some or not?”

Brooke nods, and Vanessa tosses him one of the packages of candy. 

And then it’s quiet. Vanessa doesn’t do quiet. He usually fills silences like they’re blanks in a Mad Libs, because every silence is some kind of opportunity. He’s at a loss for what to do now, because here’s the thing: Brooke oozes confidence. He’s posted against the doorframe, watching, not even pretending to be interested in the unopened candy in his hand. 

Vanessa pops a Sour Patch child in his mouth, digs through the package and picks out the green ones first, then the blue. Brooke doesn’t seem scared of silence, seems to own it instead. Vanessa can practically feel Brooke’s eyes on him and the tension in the air that’s ready to snap.

Vanessa also doesn’t do subtlety. It’s not in his vocabulary, and he wouldn’t know how to pronounce it if he tried. So he gets foolish (typical) and lets some words spill out of his mouth before thinking them all the way through.

“I see you looking at me.”

“Am I? Looking at you?” This coy motherfucker.

“Yes, bitch, all the damn time. About every time I look up from my station.”

“So you’re looking too.”

Vanessa locks eyes with Brooke. He leaves no room for doubts. 

“Might be,” he says all soft.

Brooke bites his lip again, slow this time. He doesn’t say anything, he’s waiting, and it’s absolutely eating Vanessa alive.

Every silence is some kind of opportunity.

“Fuck it,” Vanessa mutters.

He steps into Brooke’s space, wraps a hand in that grey sweatshirt, and pulls Brooke down into a kiss. It’s too abrupt to be graceful, a little too hard, a little off-center. But something kicks on in Vanessa’s stomach when he feels Brooke’s mouth soften, feels him lean in and try and deepen it. And yeah, okay,  _ yes _ . This is the moment Vanessa realizes that this is going to be a problem, because Brooke is kissing him like they’re stranded on a desert island, like nothing else matters, and Vanessa really wants to believe that. 

There’s a hand holding onto his chin all nice and firm. There’s a strain growing in his neck because Brooke’s so damn tall (and  _ oh _ ), but Vanessa can’t imagine pulling away. 

They break apart and Vanessa’s just a little bit breathless, just a little bit fluttery. There’s a little bit of panic that flashes behind Brooke’s eyes. Vanessa catches it before Brooke quickly covers back up with all that self-assurance. 

Vanessa notices that Brooke’s not really all that good at hiding what he’s thinking. Good. 

“I should go.” Vanessa smiles. He walks around Brooke through the doorway, brushes close even though he doesn’t have to. His eyes get wide, the exact intended effect. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Brooke calls after him.

Vanessa’s halfway down the hallway when he turns back around. Brooke’s not so confident now, with his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides (nothing to hold). He can already feel the swarm of worries starting to buzz in his head and he wants to run at full speed down the hallway because  _ oh my god.  _

Instead, he winks. “I know you will.”

* * *

So then. All the stuff on TV happens. There’s so much they don’t show, things that were never filmed and are lost to both of their memories. But Vanessa can play them back in his mind as clear as any tagged Instagram video, so that doesn’t really matter. 

He thinks of the way Brooke would play with his hair after lunch, when he rested his head in Brooke’s lap. Then the way that Brooke would nod all solid and determined when Vanessa would squeeze his hand tight before they walked in each morning and ask, “you ready?” And the way Vanessa melted into a puddle when Brooke kissed him slow and deep in the back of that damn van, like he was the only person in the whole world.

(Vanessa will watch it back from bars around the country. He’ll see the cracks start to form in Brooke’s armor, and see himself work his way in there. He’ll roll his eyes at all of it. And it’ll hurt. Parts of it will feel good, sure, but most of it will hurt.)

* * *

Some editors got footage of this one moment, somewhere. Vanessa remembers the dutiful camera woman across the Werk Room table from them while they talked on the last day of filming. It probably gets cut because they can’t make it make sense, and for that, Vanessa is weirdly grateful.

“They’re gonna make us lip sync against each other,” Vanessa says, because he knows. 

“They wouldn’t do that.” Brooke barely looks up from his mirror.

Vanessa rolls his eyes, bites his lip. Brooke seems convinced, and Vanessa isn’t sure how he doesn’t see it. Maybe he’s in denial; that would be a nice state to be in. He promised Brooke he wouldn’t make this about them, that their relationship didn’t have to have anything to do with the competition, but he can’t help the way his stomach churns at the thought of going up against Brooke. It’s not right.

Vanessa doesn’t say any of that, but Brooke must be able to see it or something or maybe just read his mind. Brooke traces a couple of small-but-strong circles between Vanessa’s shoulders before reaching for his bag. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks, and Vanessa can hear a wrapper crinkle. 

It’s the Sour Patch Kids. The same goddamn Sour Patch Kids that Brooke didn’t eat while he kissed him by the vending machines instead. Brooke sets them down now on the table and Vanessa’s heart gets caught in his throat as it surges up out of his chest. 

He kept it.

And  _ fuck _ . The cameras are on and there might be tears at the corners of his eyes and Vanessa doesn’t know what to do with this moment other than to hold it. 

Every silence is some kind of opportunity, and sometimes they don’t have to be filled with words. 

He gets close. Brooke wraps Vanessa up into his arms and doesn’t loosen his arms until the camera woman walks away. He can feel Brooke breathing and matches up with the pace of his own breath, just to see how it feels. Soon he won’t have this anymore, two time zones apart, so he really tries to make it count. 

It’s almost time to start getting ready, and Vanessa doesn’t know how he’s going to do that when every ounce of what is about to happen is so terrifying. But Brooke keeps breathing and so does Vanessa, and that’s more than enough. 

He pulls back, dabs a little bit at the corners of his eyes. He takes Brooke’s hand and squeezes it. “All right, boo. What happens, happens. You ready?”

Brooke nods, a little softer, and Vanessa is absolutely fucked. He grabs the Sour Patch Kids and tosses them in his tote bag, where they’ll be safe. 

Ultimately, he never eats them. He keeps them around, just in case.

**Author's Note:**

> The first in the Behind Closed Doors Series. We'll be posting one for the next 10 days until the entire series is complete.


End file.
